


sealed with a kiss

by harscrow



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Feelings Realization, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harscrow/pseuds/harscrow
Summary: “No matter how hard you try to deny it, no matter how hard you push those buttons of yours until you trigger the only reaction you’re comfortable with. Guilt won’t save you much longer, light of my life.”The affectionate moniker gouges a pit of anger in Bruce’s chest. It’s pitch black down there, and anything but silent. Never again he wants to hear it, and at least once more. The strength it takes him to keep both hands clasped tight around Joker’s neck battles the ardent dream of running them under his shirt, all over that sensitive flesh ever contracting with anticipation in the Bat’s presence.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 19
Kudos: 122





	sealed with a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I know the idea behind this work is not particularly original, but I'm excited nonetheless to post my first fanfic about these two. Take it as an attempt at finding my footing when it comes to a ship I got into just recently but which I already love immensely.  
> So, considering all that is at stake here, I'd like to thank everyone who helped me with this fic: 
> 
> ♡ The lovely Lynxina (@LeCitron10 on twitter) for giving life to my vision with the beautiful art you see at the end of this page! Go and commission her, she's so good and I personally can't wait to work with her again :D
> 
> ♡ My dearest friend and guardian angel Mike, for beta-reading this fic and always believing in me as a writer. Coming from him, it's the hugest of honors.
> 
> ♡ My sweet, precious Ilenia, who encourages me and listens to me ramble about Batjokes on a daily basis and still hasn't had enough of our friendship.

“No matter how hard you try to deny it, no matter how hard you push those buttons of yours until you trigger the only reaction you’re comfortable with. Guilt won’t save you much longer, light of my life.”

The affectionate moniker gouges a pit of anger in Bruce’s chest. It’s pitch black down there, and anything but silent. Never again he wants to hear it, and at least once more. The strength it takes him to keep both hands clasped tight around Joker’s neck battles the ardent dream of running them under his shirt, all over that sensitive flesh ever contracting with anticipation in the Bat’s presence.

“Shut up, Joker!” Batman growls, body aching in the aftermath of their fight, tense in the crisp midnight air. His strained words sound stupidly ineffective to his own ears, but his opponent begs to differ.

“Oh yes, keep calling my name like that. I quiver oh so deliciously when you do.” The clown prince of crime says, vicious eyes ablaze behind a curtain of tears. He has taken one hell of a beating, laughing and prompting more and more violence as Batman pummeled weeks of frustration and pent-up desire into him.

Yes, Bruce’s entire self is being devoured by an unforgiving surge of pain, but not because of the hits he just took himself. What he has to contain, what he strives to keep locked up in the most secluded area of his instinct is pushing to break him from the inside.

“Does it make you feel like a big bad bat? Knowing what you do to me?” Joker urges, a snicker disrupting the rhythm of his taunting, and a telltale boner obscenely visible under his skimpy mulberry pants. Womens’ wear, judging by the button positioned on the left side. “I'm sure it does, ha! I see you, I understand by now what makes you tick.”

Ba-dum goes Bruce’s heart. In a rabid haze, he can see himself yanking those trousers down. “You have no idea who I am.”

Joker’s tongue dabs at his bottom lip, poking at the wound Batman’s welcome fist caused earlier, and it’s disturbing how the groan escaping his pale throat doesn’t come from anywhere near discomfort. “But I do. I do, Brucie dearest.” He whispers, almost, their proximity making it all too easy. 

With the gauntlet of his true identity thrown in his face, Bruce can’t help but squeeze harder, his grip on the maniac’s neck threatening to snap it in two. It would solve a lot of problems at once. It would be easy. It would be right. But the feverish smile that haunts him to the point of obsession doesn’t fade, even as the man struggles for air. Ba-dum goes Bruce’s heart. He knows he should compartmentalize, tackle the probably catastrophic consequences of his biggest secret being exposed by the devil himself, but lust fogs his better judgement. Slipping back into a mental space he’s been revisiting far too often lately, Bruce imagines how fucking good it would feel to take the clown’s ass against that very wall and just punish him, give him what he wants. What they both want. It’s intoxicating, so vulgar and… possible.

“Underestimated me again.” Joker hisses, banging at Batman’s shoulders softly, too softly. A yearning lover’s touch. “But it's alright.” He coughs, windpipe convulsing under his nemesis’ palms. “You put me in such a good mood I will forgive an ingenuous _défaillance_. I'm not… a monster.” A hint of charming panache, a dash of cold irony, and some delusion of grandeur: stir them well together, and a murderer’s joke is made.

Bruce doesn’t even know why he insists on countering the clown’s verbal sparring. Or maybe he does. And that’s why he finds it so difficult to stop indulging him, and himself. “You just killed five police officers and three innocent civilians.” His voice grows huskier, a roll of thunder, listing Joker’s most recent victims as a reminder that he is indeed a monster, completely unaware of another life’s worth. Who the reminder is for, however, is better left unsaid.

“But of course!” Joker coughs again, his gloved fingers coming up quickly to ease Batman’s unrelenting chokehold. Just a little bit. Just enough to keep breathing, keep talking, keep winning. “How else was I supposed to draw your attention? N-not my fault you wanna play hard to get. See, uh- Our dance needs to be balanced and- Wouldn’t dare come into your fancy old manor uninvited.”

For a moment Bruce tries to figure out what kind of logic prevented Joker from breaking into his home, if he knew who he was. That question almost finds a way out, but then he reconsiders. Remorse already rings into his ears, echoing like a siren’s song luring him to his death. He has to put a stop to this. “I’m done playing at all.” He meant to snarl, yet the resolve in his voice falters. Never has his swollen sex ached so bad, begged for relief with such desperation.

One faux pas Joker detects immediately, his focus sharper than a batarang’s edge. “Doubt it.” He says, oddly calm, wide row of teeth saluting Bruce’s hesitation. “You and I are one and the same.”

“We’re not.” Bruce says. It’s an excuse, he knows, to just inch closer. He still needs one tonight, to give in. Ba-dum goes Bruce’s heart, while his fingers hook into Joker’s blood-stained shirt collar. He wants to rip it open, unveil all the bruises tarnishing stretches of skin as white as the moon. “We’re not.”

“Yes.” Joker purrs, allowing him to crush the space between them. “Yes… we are.” 

Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. Batman’s upper body presses against Joker’s lithe frame, trapping him between the wall and a crazed heart. Can’t speak, can’t… think. His arms reach for the security concrete provides, away from the beguiling, wild pounding of a heart as human as his own.

“Own it.” It’s just a murmur, scorching against Bruce’s lips. Ashen lids lower, shielding impossibly green eyes from the stern unfairness of Batman’s white lenses. “Own me.” And now it’s a plea.

Bruce is exhausted, tight in all the wrong places, burning under layers of kevlar. If the world trembled and crumbled right now he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t care. Head spinning with agony, Bruce wants, needs to let go. And so he does, falling on Joker’s lips to delve into them right away.

Addictive, corruption has the liberating taste of freedom. Immediately high on it, Bruce slams Joker against the wall, fingers digging hard into those twitching shoulders. He forces himself deeper, tongue flicking with the urgency of a thousand denied kisses. For every moan stifled down Joker’s throat, another one escapes, shot right at the expanding core of Bruce’s darkness. Hunger, amplified, whips Bruce into a frenzy, and all he wants is to hurt him. Ready to claim and break and fuck, he tears the jacket down Joker’s arms, tugs at the crumpled mauve ribbon at the base of his neck and finally pulls the damn collar open. Swift tongue still curling around his, Joker’s hips thrust up against Bruce without grace, chasing a long-awaited wave of pleasure so violent his knees buckle. Bruce grabs at the back of Joker’s thighs and picks him right up, wanton and writhing and wiry as he is. The clown gasps, and just like that his feet are off the floor. Still pressed against the wall, his arms clutch at the other anywhere they can, his mascara ruined by hot tears with every bite mauling his tender lip. Heat and lipstick and blood and sweat and spit and _yes, yes, give it to me_ fuel a kiss that never ends. Until lungs collapse and a gurgling sound, narrow at first, slithers between one shared breath, more and more distinct until its true nature is exposed: a giggle rolling into laughter erupting into a cackle. Aghast, Batman lowers Joker to the ground, and steps back to take in the sight of what he’s done. All blurry lines go crisp. His sacrifices, his legacy... It’s all gone. Shattered. Sealed with a kiss.

Joker is a red mess on a pristine canvas. Red are his cheeks, red the rivulets of blood mixing up with the red lipstick smeared across his face, red is the mark Batman’s fingers imprinted on his neck, and red is the glint of a neon sign flaring in his eyes. He gleams with hilarity, arms wrapped around himself to mimic the modesty of a freshly defiled virgin. “Oh, Batsy! You finally made an honest clown out of me.”

Bruce usually has a snarky remark to offer, but not now. Not when his cock throbs furiously, trapped behind the solid surface of the codpiece. Not when forbidden warmth still lingers on his mouth, and he has just handed over to his worst enemy what little was left of his integrity.

“Don’t beat yourself up, handsome!” Joker coos, nibbling the blood-soaked tip of his white satin glove. “I am happy. The happiest I’ve ever been.” And in expressing that feeling he sounds so genuine, theatrics aside, that Bruce finds his tone similar to a child’s: innocent, surprisingly harmless. But it doesn’t last. “Almost like that time I killed your precious little-”

Batman’s punch doesn’t grant Joker the luxury of finishing the sentence, sending him flat against the wall instead. Face-first. Warm blood gushing from a freshly open wound on his cheekbone, Joker lets his abused body sag against the concrete, shivers coursing through it as Bruce shackles his wrists. A swirling mass of chaotic thoughts shoves Bruce on the verge of an anxiety attack, so he turns to duty, an old remedy he believes has never failed to heal him before. Fatigue takes over them both, complete silence a poison they drink all the way until the Batmobile’s door locks behind a restrained Joker.

The ride to Arkham Asylum is quiet too, even suspiciously so. Bruce doesn’t dare speak, plunging into his private litany of self-hate to avoid the subject of his attraction to the Joker. Or at least he tries. Whenever he feels his mind slipping towards perilous inquiries, focusing on the engine roar becomes the only distraction available, the noise comforting enough to ground him for a few minutes. But then Joker barely shifts in his seat, making his presence felt at the corner of Batman’s eye; whether the gesture is intended to be a nuisance or a mere physical outlet for battered limbs, Bruce couldn’t say. He clenches at the steering wheel harder, tension jolting through him from his knuckles to his shoulders. The unrelenting grip now a means to stop himself from doing something incredibly stupid like reaching out, pulling his prisoner free, then closer. For another kiss.

“You’re never… never there to see what I look like afterwards.” Joker sighs, catching Bruce off guard. His eyes, however, don’t search for Batman’s as they always do; they just stay glued to the streets of Gotham pulsing behind the tinted glass. Sad, he seems sad. “When my beautiful complexion is all puffed and sore, and they give me stitches and I cry myself to sleep as bruises blacken, bone slowly heals… You know, it’s not the pain. Not the pain that makes me weep, no. It’s missing you.”

As absurd as it seems, Bruce doesn’t question the truth of that statement. Joker has never lied to him after all. On the contrary, he’s always been transparent. And Bruce, instead, oh so blind. So deaf. So obstinately in denial. Opposed to such a simple, yet frightening fact: every time they part, he misses Joker too. Coward enough for that to never reach his mouth, Bruce wallows in silence.

Subtle laughter fills up the cockpit, frigid and insidious like winter breeze. It only withers when Bruce hits the brakes in front of the ever grim Arkham entrance. He can't stop thinking about Joker crying in his cell, longing for him, and his heart coils into a spiral of guilt. His guarded face, though, doesn't give anything away.

“So… Seduced and abandoned, eh? Not very chivalrous of you.” Joker pouts, back to his mindless flirting. Bruce grabs him by the elbow to pull him out of the car, that point of junction all they’ve got now. And inside they venture, doomed to repeat an all too familiar ritual instead of commencing a more sensual, electric one.

The impending sensation of running out of time slows Bruce down, weighing on him at every step. At least fifteen more separate them from the door when Bruce blurts out two rushed words, voice hoarse and thumping heart. “I can't.” It could mean a million different things, he's aware, but he has no doubt Joker will see right through him and understand.

“You already did.” It's the cryptic response Bruce is rewarded with. The striking force of that simple, soft-spoken sentence brings to light a frightening new reality that can’t be undone.

Duty. Duty is his calling. Justice his goal, the only one that matters. Bruce lies to himself, arranges his priorities in the order he’s expected to during that walk to the gallows. Picking up his pace through the courtyard, he swallows the actual impulse rattling his soul. Joker follows him obediently, humming an unknown melody that Batman's ears will not forget any time soon. It's silly, easy to memorize, like a nursery rhyme.

All Bruce knows deep in his bones is that he opposes this separation, loathes every glance the Arkham personnel bents upon him and Joker. So much lies within Bruce’s reach, and so much he’s letting go, condemning himself to pointless deprivation devoid of repentance. He can already determine with surgical accuracy how bad turning his back on the clown is going to hurt this time, and tries to prepare for it. Tired, yet always methodical Bruce Wayne, the illusion of control still his biggest flaw. But when they take Joker away from him, that alone is a first searing knife piercing his flesh. What good is it to even have hands when you are morally obliged to stand aside and watch strangers drag your other half behind bars where you can’t touch him anymore?

Before the sharp realization sparking that thought can kick in, Bruce is distracted by _him_. Still in his line of vision, Joker lights up suddenly. Beautiful, full of life, his cuts and bruises almost beaming with color in the dull corridor. Bruce craves nothing more than to brush those damp curls away from dried blood, and pour antiseptic on Joker’s face. Ethanol seeping into his wounds, liquid love that would make him howl and beg, pleasured in pain. “Oh, I forgot!” The clown jumps, excited. If only he knew. “You got lipstick all over your mug, Batsy. Maybe you wanna clean up before one of your wenches sees that. Wouldn’t want them to _claw_ at your pretty scowl!”

A somewhat panicked, unconditional reflex brings Bruce’s hand to his lips to rub at them furiously. When he looks down at his gloves, traces of bright red lipstick contrast with the black of his fingers pads. Now he understands the vaguely puzzled look every guard at Arkham gave him as he escorted Joker into the building.

“Did our patient… _assault_ you?”

Handcuffed primadonna of his own sick melodrama, Joker waves an imaginary tissue, his lean body twisting hopelessly towards his masked knight, again and again. “I hope you’ll be thinking of me, darling. I sure will!” He fake-sobs, disheveled and manhandled by two robust uniformed men. A third one slams closed the first gate separating the admittance area from the rest of the facility. The clanging sound, so heavy and obscure, reverberates through Batman’s conscience.

“Don’t let him escape, for once.” It’s all Bruce has to say to a stiff Jeremiah Arkham, wondering which form his own oncoming castigation is going to take to match Joker’s. Their sins, tonight, are equals on the scale.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this fic a chance, I hope you guys enjoyed it! :)


End file.
